If you ever lose heart and the earth seems as distant as stars fading into the noise of your busy mind, know this. That a tiny island exists in the blue hands of the ocean. That a tree grows upright into the salted clouds. That two eagles love each other enough to spend their lives greeting the morning sun together. That two eaglets stand in their nest, gazing at the heavens. Looking down to the forever ground. They eat and sleep and flap their wings. And one day in July, one by one, they will jump into the air. They will know the difference between existing and what is beyond. They will hold onto nothing. The hurricane will come, courage catching their pinions on fire, as they mount the wind, climbing ladders into realms of the invisible.

--T.L. Stokes

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Viking Field

First light comes over the last
sleeping plate of stars.

Coyote hunting calls
into my dream and as it runs into the field
the pack begins to celebrate.

Jagged vibrating song
awakens some wild cell
inside of me

and I walk to the window
hoping to see the blur of their bodies
through the grass and expiring leaves,

but they dance in the far corner
of the field beyond our eyes.
Raven is hungry,

his raspy voice
lifts after the howling.

Stacy and I and the dogs walk the field
later hoping to find the bones
of what they were singing about.

Now night fills the air with its
dark light. The moon is a white
and polished knife. Hungry scavenger,
mute witness,

how my heart is drawn inexplicitly
to you. I come from the night
of the Viking, strangely changed,

the coyotes, the raven.

When I can see nothing else,
you carve a part of my sky.

The black dog leads me back
to the only warm thing, a lantern
opening doorways before us,

like a void we enter,
into room after foggy room
of light.

~~c2011 T.L. Stokes (all rights reserved)

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